


and then that word grew louder and louder

by Duck_Life



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Autistic Martin Blackwood, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Martin reflects on how much of himself he had to give up for his master plan.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 148





	and then that word grew louder and louder

He really thought Peter was just going to kill him. 

Martin stares at his reflection in Daisy’s scratched and scarred bathroom mirror. He’s done washing his hands, finished minutes ago, and the chill where water still clings to his skin makes him think of gray beaches and the endless, rolling fog. 

He really thought Peter was just going to kill him. It wasn’t a  _ pleasant _ thought, but… he’d been prepared for it. Standing in the Panopticon, staring down Elias/Jonah and Peter, when he’d launched into his explanation of how sneakily and thoroughly he had screwed over Peter Lukas… it felt  _ good _ . 

It felt good to be in the presence of two bonafide supervillains and be the one detailing  _ your  _ master scheme. 

And when Peter turned on him, all that rage and cold fury seeping from him like static and seafoam, Martin had stood his ground. He was scared, sure, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t run. His own boldness felt like fire in his veins— not “lightless flame” fire or whatever, but actual fire. Warm, strengthening. Like a shot of whiskey on New Year’s Eve, the kind of brave that makes you think you can walk into the cold without a jacket, the kind of brave that makes you think you can tell the person next to you anything on your mind without having to be afraid. 

* * *

Martin peers at himself in the mirror now, looking for some kind of change. It’s hard to believe that being thrust into the Lonely hasn’t left some kind of visible mark on him. He keeps looking for white hairs or faded freckles, but there’s nothing. On the outside, he looks exactly the same. 

He’d been prepared to die before, secure in the knowledge that Jon would be safe, that Daisy and Basira and Melanie and Rosie the receptionist and Hannah from the library and everybody else up above them would be okay. He’d meant what he said: he wasn’t some kind of “chosen one.” 

But maybe he could be the guy that heroically sacrificed himself to save the people he loves. (Maybe he could be like Tim.) Maybe that could be him. So he planted his feet and he told himself he was probably about to die. 

He didn’t die. 

And the not-dying went on  _ forever _ , because as soon as he was There he knew with a blank certainty that he would never leave. That, perhaps, a part of him had always been Here. On a cold beach, disappearing into the mist, unloved and unremembered. Forsaken. 

Dying for the people you love is one thing.

Realizing that you have no love left for anyone, that the place inside you that might once have felt anything close to love is empty— and that there’s nobody who loves  _ you _ — it’s something else. 

He’d drifted. 

That fire that made it possible for him to stare down Peter and Elias-not-Elias was completely extinguished, replaced by an empty, gauzy nothingness. Those who follow the Lonely are meant to rely only on themselves, but Martin felt completely disconnected from himself. 

Any joy or sadness he’d ever felt was wiped away. There was fear, but it was muted. Gentle. He knew he could let the fear take him and it wouldn’t have any effect on the world or London or the people whose faces were sliding from his memory. 

And then Jon was there, and it felt like some kind of awkward joke. Jon was there for Martin— after all, that’s whose name he kept calling. But Martin wasn’t quite Martin anymore, was he? 

He’d tried, in that moment, to remember something about the version of Martin that Jon had come looking for. And he’d come up with, “I really loved you, you know?” 

* * *

“ _ Shit _ .” Martin drags himself out of clouded memories, his hands clutching the porcelain sink in Daisy’s safehouse. “Shit!” For the moment, he’s glad Jon is down in the village buying groceries, because apparently his brain picked right  _ now _ to remind him that he’d actually confessed. 

He dries his hands haphazardly and stomps out of the bathroom, trying to find an outlet for the buzzing anxiety thrumming through him. It’s… it’s not like Jon didn’t  _ know _ , right? He must’ve said it on  _ tape _ before, and he knows Jon listens to all of those. 

And. And, well, he hasn’t exactly been  _ subtle _ , these past few years. So. 

But it’s different. It’s one thing to be fairly obvious about your feelings for someone. It’s a whole other animal when it comes to actually  _ saying it out loud _ and being met with nothing but cold indifference—

No. He stops that train of thought right there. Jon ran full-tilt into the Lonely for  _ him _ . Jon didn’t give up until he could  _ make _ Martin see him. Jon led them, miraculously, back into the real world. By all rights, they should never have made it out. They should both have faded away to shades of nothing, they shouldn’t even be  _ here _ right now—

A fresh wave of anxiety threatens to send him spiraling. His hands start following the familiar motions of boiling water for tea, and Martin decides to go along with it. 

* * *

It doesn’t seem  _ fair _ . 

Maybe that’s a stupid way of looking at it, but. Still. It doesn’t seem  _ fair _ that he could grow and change and learn so much, stand up for himself, make a plan and follow it through and scrape out  _ some _ kind of win… only for it all to be undone. 

Because the Martin that got thrown into the Lonely isn’t the same one that came back out. And there’s a tiny, ugly part of him that wonders if Jon will be disappointed when he figures that out. 

Bad as it is, that’s a part of himself that Martin clings to. Because caring what Jon thinks of him is, at least,  _ caring about another person _ . And he was kind of worried he wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. 

Martin sips his tea too soon and burns the roof of his mouth. Martin sips his tea and tries to care about other people. 

Basira was a mess when they left. He's supposed to talk to her tomorrow. It occurs to him that he and Basira have found themselves in similar positions: irrevocably attached to people insistent on destroying themselves and everyone around them.

Maybe that's not fair. It's probably not fair. He's bad at this. He's out of practice. 

Cutting himself off from Jon was… Well, it was awful, but at least he knew he was doing it  _ for  _ Jon. 

At the beginning, he was allying with Peter to keep Melanie and Basira safe but… the further his charade went, the harder it became to focus on them. 

It's a shame. He'd never realized that the last time they went out for drinks really was the  _ last time _ . 

As for Jon… an ugly feeling of resentment rises up in him. Martin gave away all these little pieces of himself to protect Jon, and now that it's all over there's not enough of him left to love Jon the way he wanted to. Just phantom pains, old aches. 

Abruptly, guilt washes over him. If  _ he  _ resents  _ Jon _ , he can't imagine what Jon feels. Jon, who risked everything to travel into the Lonely and yank him out, only to be left with a version of Martin that is less, that is cold, that is hollow. 

* * *

The door of the cabin squeaks when it opens, and then there's Jon, laden with grocery bags. Martin stands at the kitchen counter, a cup of tea halfway to his lips. He stares. 

He tries to say something like _I'm so sorry_ or _I wish things were different_ but all he manages is a little nod. 

Jon says, "Honey, I'm home" and sets the bags on the counter. He cocks his head to the side, watching Martin carefully. In a more serious tone, he says, "How are you feeling?"

Martin looks into his cup of tea instead of meeting Jon's eyes. "I feel very far away."

"Okay," Jon says. "Okay. What can I do about that? How can I help?" Martin says nothing. "Why don't we… why don't we go and sit on the couch, okay? Can you come and sit on the couch with me?"

So Martin follows him, clutching his mug close to his chest and trailing behind Jon. They sit. The groceries lay forgotten on the counter. 

Jon looks like he wants to touch Martin but isn't sure how to ask, so Martin reaches out to him. His fingertips brush against Jon's hand, just the barest pressure at first, the whisper of a touch, and then he twists his fingers around Jon's. Jon squeezes his hand. 

"Have, um…" Jon says, "have you… cried… yet?"

Martin's eyes widen. It's such a pointed, personal question, but it also feels ridiculous at this point to think that  _ anything  _ is off-limits. It feels like any sense of privacy or boundaries between them has been razed to ash. 

"I just," Jon says, "there was something Melanie said, once, about, um. The Slaughter, and…" He pauses, maybe realizing that Melanie's trauma isn't his to tell. "I just. I know release can, can be therapeutic…"

"I haven't cried," Martin says flatly. "I, um. Jesus." He looks down at their entwined hands. "I haven't cried since Mum… you know."

"I'm sorry," Jon says quietly. 

"It's… yeah."

"I haven't. At all, not since… not since I woke up," Jon says. "I, um. I don't know if I can anymore."

"Jeez."

"Yeah."

"We're, ah. We're really messed up, aren't we?" Martin says. 

"I suppose."

"Maybe, maybe we should watch 'Iron Giant' or something," Martin jokes weakly. "Give our tear ducts a workout." 

"Mmm."

Martin sweeps his thumb over the back of Jon's hand, where the skin is mottled with scars. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I know you're… you must be disappointed."

Jon looks up sharply. "What?"

"I've spent so many  _ months _ pushing you away, getting… getting tangled up in all  _ this _ ." He gestures to nothing in particular with the hand still clutching his tea. "You probably thought when you came and got me that it would be… that it'd be like breaking a spell, you know? Like Peter was an evil old wizard and I was some… I was under a curse and you were going to free me. And now—"

"Martin," Jon says. "I know who you are. And I…  _ believe  _ me, I know we don't live in a fairy tale. You could never disappoint me. I just… I want you to be alright."

"Then you're going to be disappointed."

"That's not what I…" Jon sighs. "You're here, Martin. You're al… well, you're going to be alright. That's enough for me." Quieter, more gently, he says, "You're enough, Martin. I promise. Even if you're not okay. Even if you're never okay again. No matter what, you're enough."

* * *

Around 11, Jon starts unfolding the pullout couch again. He notices Martin watching him with a strange look on his face. "You could," Martin says, making a vague hand gesture toward the bedroom. "With me."

"Oh." Jon stops what he's doing, one hand still on the partially unfolded bedframe. "Do you want me to?"

"Do…  _ you  _ want to?"

Jon takes a moment to consider all the potential consequences and ramifications and it gives him a headache. So he says, "Yes, I'd like that. I'd… I like having you close."

"Okay."

"Good."

"Right."

* * *

Finding a comfortable sleeping position is another matter, of course. Jon is small but spindly, and he sleeps like a starfish all spread out. Martin's so tall his toes hang off the foot of the bed. 

Eventually, Martin suggests Jon just climb on top of him and so he does. They lie there, Jon's back pressed against Martin's chest, his head pillowed against Martin's shoulder. 

"This is nice," Martin mumbles, almost like he's embarrassed. 

Jon smiles, feeling warm and safe in Martin's arms. "Better than a weighted blanket, right?"

"Much." The pressure of Jon on top of him, holding him down like an anchor, does feel good. It keeps Martin from feeling like he’s drifting away, out to sea or into the air. For so many months now he’s just been drifting, unshackled from petty things like feelings and consequences and guilt and grief. 

It’s all coming back now. It’s coming back a little worse for wear, like washing a shirt too many times until it becomes loose and faded, but it’s coming back. His emotions. His sense of self. His connections to the world around him, to his friends, to Jon. 

It won’t be easy, of course. And it’s entirely likely that he’ll wake up tomorrow and feel distant again. But this, right now, with Jon gently tracing his fingertips along Martin’s arm, his back pressed against Martin’s chest, it’s a nice start. 

"Martin,” Jon speaks up, his voice careful. “You should know that I… I love you, too.” He’s looking up at the ceiling, like he’s been waiting all day for a way to be near Martin without actually having to make eye contact. “I think I have for awhile. And the thought of not having you in my life  _ hurts _ , like a physical ache. These last few months have felt  _ empty  _ without you."

Martin sits there blinking, trying to process the information. This is the thing he used to daydream about back when life was relatively normal, back when the worst he had to worry about were worms squirming under his apartment door. He's envisioned this moment before, wondering what Jon would say and how he would say it. 

And now…

Now he just feels vacant. Like he's had a balloon in his chest that's finally popped, but instead of whizzing around the room with a screaming whine it just slowly, slowly sinks in on itself, shriveling away as the air seeps out. 

"Thank you for telling me," Martin says dully, hating himself. He  _ knows  _ how hard it is for Jon to talk about his feelings, and here he is just blowing him off. Like Jon's just told him about a particularly good sale on tangerines. Stupid. Selfish. 

But Jon, instead of sounding hurt or rolling off of Martin, says, "Thank you for being here to hear it." He says, "Thank you for doing what you did to protect me, I… I wish you hadn't, but… But I can't change what you did. Thank you for caring. Thank you for your… your belief in me, for your kindness, for your strength… I'm really, really glad that I know you, Martin."

Martin is quiet for a long, long time. Jon gives him the quiet, just keeps running his fingers along Martin’s arm and holding him down in the present and staying there with him. And finally Martin says, "Yeah… that did it." And Jon cranes around to see that Martin has started to cry. 


End file.
